


Sturm und Drang

by auxanges



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:15:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conventionally translated to Storm and Stress; violent expression to difficult emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kyrie

**Author's Note:**

> Tryin a thing  
> Chapters will include links to their titular pieces as close to the timeline as possible, I have a little free time and lots of classical theory books ha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLwMEBlBBB4

**1444**

He waits patiently for the service to finish, quietly finding a seat in the furthest pew back. He doesn’t mind it: the Church has taken to singing their rites, and the tones blend with the incense smoke and together they rise to the rafters.

_Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi._

Latin—a language that Roderich never did perfect, but one Gilbert knows well.

He’s near the altar, not out of sight but not at the forefront; in clean black-and-white robes illuminated by sparse candles, one would have to double-take to make sure Gilbert isn’t a ghost. A sign from God, maybe. An angel.

Roderich knows better.

_Dona nobis pacem._

* * *

Gilbert receives Eucharist like everyone else. He didn’t the first time, but then again, the first time he hadn’t even been allowed in the great halls of the church. Piety, it turns out, doesn’t grant you entrance when you look the way he does.

A boy of the land, a boy of God, it doesn’t make a difference once he kneels at the altar and opens his mouth to receive the body of Christ. He crosses himself and looks up at the priest, who quickly looks away. Gilbert doesn’t mind.

It must be hard, pretending a child who shouldn’t exist is nothing more than a servant to something higher.

But Gilbert is surprisingly good at his role. He knows his scriptures, he attends Mass twice a day. He washes his brothers’ feet. He lights the candles and fills the incense. He knows the names of the Saints, their patronage. He confesses…usually.

Roderich says he’ll grow soon. It annoys Gilbert, mostly because Roderich isn’t that much bigger than him, not really, but he already knows so _much_ , more than quiet monasteries and yellow parchments. Roderich knows open fields and mountain air, and when he sings it isn’t to implore for mercy.

The thought suddenly strikes Gilbert as funny, but he doesn’t know why, and he brings his cross to his lips in a chaste kiss and forgets about it for now.

* * *

There must be something about Roderich that makes the monk’s eyes light up with understanding and usher him into the boy’s quarters with no questions. There’s always something that appears to suggest he isn’t what he seems. So far, it’s worked in his favour, and so he hopes to figure out what it is soon.

Gilbert’s room - below the marshal’s quarters - is small, humble: a cot, a desk, a window looking out onto the churchyard. He’s running rosary beads between his fingers, a habit Roderich has seen often enough by now.

“Enjoy the service?”

“It was pleasant enough.” Roderich peers at the parchment on the desk. The candles cast shadows on his face, along cheekbones that seem to grow more prominent by the day. “The setting’s a little dreary, don’t you think?”

“Modest,” Gilbert replies automatically, then shakes his head and puts down his beads, heading for the desk. “Look here. I’ve been practicing.”

There are bruises on his left forearm, raps from a master’s ruler, but Gilbert stubbornly reaches for the quill with his left hand and expertly fills a line of parchment with crisp strokes of ink. Roderich looks over his shoulder. “You’ve improved.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Gilbert can’t help but puff out his chest a little, though, as he puts back the quill and wipes ink off his hand. “Why did you come here?”

“I came to tell you I won’t be visiting you for a while.”

Gilbert gives him a quizzical look. “You don’t have to come here anyway.” Come to think of it, he’s always been a little curious as to why the other boy chooses to travel all this way, when it’s clear he doesn’t even like—

“You misunderstand me, Gilbert,” Roderich replies in a tone that implies this had been the intention.

Gilbert narrows his eyes, scarlet slits in the soft glow of the candles.

Roderich continues. “I won’t come to see you here, because you’ll be summoned instead.”

Something inside Gilbert twists. He fiddles with the roped belt at his waist. “My place is here,” he says lamely, after a long, long minute of racing thoughts, after the slow creeping realization that even as he says the words he isn’t sure how true they are.

Roderich chuckles softly. It’s not unkind, but it makes Gilbert scowl nonetheless. One slender hand pushes hair back from his face: he’s pretty, and Gilbert’s scowl deepens. A pretty face doesn’t absolve you of sin.

Surely Roderich knows that.

“What are you?”

The question makes Gilbert start, and instinctively launch into the routine response he’s given for a year, ten years, a hundred years. “I am a brother of the Order of the House of Saint Mary—”

Something glints in his periphery and his hand shoots up to effortlessly catch the brass inkwell aimed at his face.

Roderich smiles a sinner’s smile. “You and I both know you’re far more than that.”

Gilbert says nothing, doesn’t acknowledge the other boy as he takes his leave upon telling him to expect word soon. He gingerly sets the empty inkwell with the other on the desk before kneeling at the foot of his cot.

Roderich is a puzzle, he decides; his words are nothing more than puffs of air that hide something unspoken.

But.

He steals a glance past his folded hands out his window, up again to the portrait of Saint George above it.

Something itches just under his skin even as he begins to recite his prayers for the night. And for the first time - or perhaps just the first time Gilbert is willing to admit - he wonders if his prayers are the same puzzling puffs of air. If there is any truth to his words, to Roderich’s words.

Because what good would it do to be born with a sword in your hand, but no one to offer it to?

Gilbert crosses himself and goes to sleep, and when he goes to confession the following week he says nothing of the meeting, nothing of how he sneaks to the armouries after mealtime and balances a sword in his palm. If anyone’s noticed, they don’t dare bring it up to the ghostly boy, the demon in poor man’s clothes.

Sunday, the church bells start to ring, and Gilbert follows, and sits at his place by the altar, waiting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Saint George, among other things, is the patron saint of soldiers and the Teutonic Order.


	2. Flötenkonzert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDSGrQadsEM

**1740**

There is a bright-eyed man among the performers in Sansoucci, watched over by another man leaning against the wall by one of the tall windows his new King is so fond of.

From his own vantage point, a polite distance away from the guests of honour (a guest he usually is, but seldom an honourable one, not in Prussian courts), Roderich watches both men in silence. Gilbert rolls on the balls of his feet, the late summer Sun hitting one navy sleeve of his coat and no doubt making him more restless than usual. Roderich has come to know his tells: the short, forceful sighs, the constant, inconspicuous shift of his curious eyes from one body to another.

Of course, he’s noticed Roderich a while ago now, but he seems to be on his best behaviour for his new leader, and after a brief glance and a quick nod in his direction Gilbert all but ignores him.

Gilbert may not be versed in the refineries of Viennese culture, Roderich thinks, but even he knows it’s rude to interrupt a performance.

He turns back to the young King. The transverse flute bobs up and down in his hands with the accompaniment, light and steady. Roderich pictures a sword in its place, and it’s easy enough that he’s sure that across the palace hall, Gilbert is doing the same.

* * *

The applause that follows the concerto echoes off the walls. Gilbert lets himself relax as it’s replaced by the low buzzing of guests murmuring and reminiscing on what they had just heard.

The King meets his gaze and grins. Gilbert’s already decided he likes him—the people have decided they like him, and the smile is as warm to Gilbert as the Sun beating down on him through the window.

Roderich waits beside him for the King. “I was sorry to hear about his father.”

“Liar.”

“You’ll say the same when my leader dies,” Roderich states simply, “just like you always have.”

“Then what?” Gilbert asks. “Am I supposed to congratulate his daughter?” The word tastes funny on his tongue, coppery.

Roderich looks at him out of the corner of his eye, partially shielded behind the arm of his glasses. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Gilbert doesn’t have time to reflect on that before his leader approaches, instrument in one hand. Late twenties—he could pass for Gilbert’s older brother, almost, with eager eyes and an energetic presence. A fact Roderich seems to pick up on quickly, and when he bows Gilbert can’t help but stand a little straighter.

“You play quite well.” Roderich’s tone is careful, his posture somewhere between cautious and downright rigid. _Good_ , Gilbert thinks. This isn’t his home; his influence doesn’t reach here.

The King raises the flute in response. “You flatter me. Do you know, word of your own virtuosity has reached me but I’ve yet to hear you perform...”

It takes all of Gilbert’s willpower not to scoff at that, but Roderich seems to feel the same as he does, for once. He scrambles for an excuse: “Oh. I, ah, I didn’t bring anything with me…”

The King waves a hand over his shoulder and within moments a violin is thrust into hesitant Austrian hands. “I’m sure you can manage your way through a passage or two.” He sounds good-natured, but the look on Roderich’s face is one that’s already afraid to disappoint. The look disappears, though, and as practiced fingers shift out of habit to fix their grip Roderich’s features soften.

“Does His Majesty have any requests?” And Roderich _dares_ to smile, a sinner’s smile, a liar’s smile, that boils Gilbert’s blood and makes his skin crawl with loathing and—

“I do, actually. I want to hear the both of you perform.”

Gilbert stares at him incredulously. A protest forms on his lips at the same time one does on the other man’s.

“You can’t be serious—”

“—we don’t particularly—”

“—uncooperative, high and mighty—”

“—would not want to hear the result of—”

The King holds up a hand, and knight and musician trail off into silence. “I’ve decided. That’s my request.” He hands Gilbert his flute.

You owe me, Gilbert mouths. His leader merely winks and turns to Roderich. “Are you familiar with any of my court composer’s works?”

“I am,” Roderich replies.

“Good.” Gilbert fiddles with the keys on the flute. “About time you listened to some real music.”

“Start anything,” the King says, taking a seat in a nearby chair, “Gilbert will follow.”

As Roderich tucks the instrument under his chin and raises the bow, he gives Gilbert a look that very clearly says _I know he will_.

* * *

Gilbert does not mind watching Roderich play. It means he doesn’t have to hear him prattle on in that sugary accent, exchanging false pleasantries with men the likes of whom Gilbert has little care for.

His eyes are lowered until his lashes almost kiss his cheeks, until Gilbert can only catch glimpses of concentrated violet as they follow his fingers. They dance across the frets and have the King’s attention—Gilbert is less impressed, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen.

Try as he might, though, he has yet to grow tired of watching Roderich play. He’s yet to grow tired of the smooth arcs of the bow, of a furrowed brow here, the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth there.

Gilbert wonders if Roderich really has to look down so much, or if he just knows he keeps his emotions in his eyes.

He shakes himself before he misses his cue, and brings the instrument to his lips.

* * *

Roderich does not mind watching Gilbert play. It is a rare occurrence, one he certainly wasn’t expecting to happen anytime soon—he knew he could, of course, Gilbert was quick to brag about how easy it was (how popular it was, so why shouldn’t he play it, after all?). He doesn’t mind, but he chooses not to.

He doesn’t have to look up to know the man beside him, after all.

He keeps his eyes trained on the violin: next to him, there’s movement as Gilbert joins in.

Roderich’s fingers are long, thin; musician’s hands with soft palms and fair skin that caress piano keys with practiced technique. Gilbert’s are pale—paler—calloused hands; bruised knuckles; fingers that, in dreams, close around his neck and squeeze.

The same hands that have seen more war than peace hold the flute as if it will break, with featherlight taps of the keys.

Roderich doesn’t need to look, because he knows Gilbert’s hands, Gilbert’s breaths, the way Gilbert’s weight shifts from foot to foot as the piece progresses. He doesn’t have to look, but he does, and Gilbert is looking back.

Roderich’s finger slips on the fret.

A fraction of a second, and he catches himself before the King can even register the error. He wonders if Gilbert caught it, but he doesn’t look up again to check.

It’s a flute piece, anyway, he thinks. The violin is quieter, in the shadows; the silver flute leads.  

 _I lead_ , sings the flute of the man with a reddish halo tangled in his hair from the setting Sun behind him. _I lead, I lead, I lead_.

* * *

There’s an unspoken end to their performance; a part where both of them stop and take a breath before Roderich lowers his bow and Gilbert moves the transverse flute from his lips. The King beams and claps Gilbert on the shoulder before thanking his (not-honoured) guest once more.

Together the pair watch Roderich weave his way into the crowd of noblemen and musicians to find the violin’s owner. “Why did you make me play with him?” Gilbert asks, when he’s run out of possible answers to his own question.

“I wanted to see how you sounded.”

“I sound just fine on my own!” Gilbert retorts. “And you still owe me.”

The King laughs, and nods in agreement. “I suppose I do, don’t I?” He looks back at Roderich, at once conspicuous and blending in with the crowd; somehow not quite a perfect fit. “I’ll make it up to you. Sooner, rather than later, I’m sure.”

Gilbert looks at his leader, then at the darkening sky outside.

“Besides, two players always make things so much more interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Frederick II ascended the Prussian throne in May. Maria Theresa succeeded her father as Empress in October of the same year, and Frederick nullified the Pragmatic Sanction and triggered war with the invasion of Silesia two months later. 
> 
> -The court composer in question is Carl Phillip Emmanuel Bach, one of Johann Sebastian's sons. In Austria around the same time, Leopold Mozart (Wolfgang's father) was also employed and composing.


End file.
